Chapter II

The sighting of the Inland Sea was a signal to start decelerating. The Los Angeles zone signal appeared, a red light on his control panel. The L.A. beam picked him up, swung him gently to the left, and brought him in automatically.

Below him he saw swarms of family fliers, all coming from the city. As he dropped down he found the traffic system entirely disorganized. Outgoing fliers were filling the incoming lanes. After narrowly missing sudden death several times, Art savagely dialed traffic center. The televisor screen lit up--but instead of a picture of the control officer seated at his switchboard, Art saw only an empty chair. It was only then that he realized the extent of the panic that gripped Los Angeles--for the control officer was sworn to remain at his post through the direst emergencies.

Now he was over the city--the vast terraced, pyramidical structures of the metropolitan area, each a mile square at the base, with a narrow rim of landing strip around each level. But as he descended lower he saw that they were no longer structures, but ruins. Even as he watched, they were crumbling and caving in on themselves. Some of them were already mere vast heaps of rubble. Projecting his helicopter propellers, he dropped down and hovered over one of them. Everywhere the broken plastoglass was covered with writhing, squirming duplicates of the creature back in his laboratory.

Art fished out his code book, found the wave length of Los Angeles Police Commissioner Horne, and rapidly dialled it. The strained and perspiring face of the Commissioner appeared, sitting at the controls of his ship as he vainly tried to straighten out the evacuating traffic.

"Douglas of the Institute reporting, Commissioner."

"Hope you brought some disintegrators!" barked the chief. "They're the only thing that will touch these beasts. The shock ray has no effect whatsoever on them. An electron torch will burn them, but that's no good--you can't go about killing them one by one. There are billions of them--they're everywhere!"

"Possibly you'd better describe the situation from the beginning for my benefit, Commissioner," Art interposed.

"What!" roared Horne. "Theller gave me to understand that you had had experience with these things, and understood them. Now you tell me--"

"Easy, Commissioner. I've seen one of these things before for a few minutes, and that's all. You asked for help and Dr. Theller sent me out here in good faith to do what I can." This served to quiet the policeman somewhat, for he merely grunted, "O.K., meet me at the top level of the Administration group; that's the silver one, the only one that still has a top level. You'll have to find it. We had to move out the traffic control--that section of the building's ready to go any minute now."

A dull grinding roar rose from everywhere below Art as he crossed the city. Clouds of dust billowed up as the huge pyramids fell in upon themselves piece by piece. He saw now the grimly effective way in which the creatures did their job. As long as there was one piece left standing on another, they would bore and chew until it was reduced to fragments. Blind instinct, rather than malice, seemed to impel them. But the effect was equally devastating. Art saw scores of people wiped out by falling wreckage when the rapidly shuttling overloaded fliers failed to remove them in time. He saw one man, trapped amidst a mass of the writhing horrors, make a sudden dash for freedom, and go down screaming in agony as dozens of savage jaws instantly fastened themselves in his flesh. Art shuddered. Something had to be done to stop this carnage.

* * * * *

By the time he sighted the commissioner's flier atop the silver pyramid of the Civic Center, he had evolved the rudiments of a plan.

He wasted no time on amenities as he met the police chief, but came to the point immediately. "Here's my idea of it, Horne. Los Angeles as a city is doomed. But I think we can save most of the people who are still here."

"How about those disintegrators?" cut in Horne. The disintegrator, being still in the experimental stage, was dynamite in the hands of the untrained. The terrific atomic explosions it set up were uncontrollable and unpredictable. Only the most highly respected and trusted scientists were even allowed to handle one. Horne nursed an idea that all his patrolmen should have been issued one to pack on their hips, and that if they had, this would never have happened.

"I have a couple with me. We can use them, but we'll have to be extremely careful. My main proposal is to get to San Francisco, Los Vegas, and all the other principal cities around here organized. Have them send millions of civilian fliers. Did you ever hear of the battle of Dunkirk in World War II? The British saved their army to fight again another day, just in that manner."

"Do you suppose I haven't thought of that?" snapped the chief. "I've already asked them. They're afraid to come. Only a few ships have trickled in."

"We've got to convince them that it's safe for a flier," insisted Art. "Show them on the televisor--send your patrolmen out to explain--anything!"

"All right," agreed Horne. "We'll try it. But I don't believe we can get them all out in time even so. Do you know that there are ten million people out in the poorer residential section, very few of whom own a flier, who depend on the public surface cars for their transportation? Central Power is dead--not a car moves in the city. My patrolmen have been out in La Brea six hours, trying to find an avenue of escape, through which they can lead those people out on foot. Every time they run into a new growth of these--these damnable monsters, and have to start all over again."

"That's where we'll use our disintegrators," explained Art. "We'll blast a path through which we can lead these people to safety." Art got on the televisor and contacted the government broadcasting center in San Francisco. "Do you have a news broadcast on now?" he asked. The girl clerk answered in the affirmative.

"Please put me on," Art begged. "I'm from Interplanetary Research. Here's my badge. This is a serious emergency. The lives of millions of people are hanging in the balance. You must put me on the air!" A moment later, the news broadcast which was even then picturing the catastrophe in billions of homes all over the world, was abruptly cut off, and Art's face appeared in its stead.

"Fellow citizens, you all know the desperate situation here in Los Angeles--but do you know that you can save a life, perhaps a dozen? There are ten million people here who face a terrible death unless they are picked up immediately. Hop in your fliers and get right down here! There is no danger for a ship which hovers a little above the ground. _Do not try to land!_ The Los Angeles Traffic Patrol will guide you to proper zones. Please hurry. Thank you." Art snapped off the switch and turned to the chief. "Now, let's try to make some kind of map of the already devastated areas. We'll have to check in some manner to be sure there are no living people left in them, then blast our path through with the disintegrators."

* * * * *

Horne readily assented to this plan, and dispatched a number of patrolmen to examine closely the ruined sections. All vicinities which had been taken over entirely by the destroyers, were to be marked by dropping tiny smoke bombs which would send up a dense column of smoke. As the commissioner and Art entered the latter's flier and took off, Art explained the difficulties of using a disintegrator.

"The atomic disintegration of a lump of matter the size of your fist sets off an explosion strong enough to blow one of these big buildings to small fragments. You can imagine what would happen to yourself and the surrounding country if you merely turned a disintegrator beam on the ground, or against a building near you. We tone down the effect somewhat by causing these pistols which I have here, to project a ray about the diameter of a hair from your head. Not only that, but the ray is immediately cut off, lasting only for the duration of one wave length. Even so, the firing of one is a plenty tricky business."

In an hour's time the air patrolmen had laid out a winding, serpentine trail over ten miles long through the bristling mounds of debris. A warning broadcast was sent directing all citizens within sight of the smoke to get underground, lie low, and plug their ears.

"Here we go," said Art, stationing himself at a tiny port in the rear of his flier. "Zoom down over that first signal--as soon as you've passed over it, kick her up again at a slight angle." Horne obeyed. They passed the target; nothing happened. He was beginning to wonder what Art was waiting for, when a half mile past the smoke column, Art fired. The resulting concussion surprised even Art. He felt the ship lurch as it was thrown like a huge projectile high above the city. He grinned as he watched Horne, cursing and fighting until he had the bucking ship under control.

"Let's take a look," he said, sobering at once. He had an uneasy feeling concerning the way in which the grounded population was taking the shock. But his fears were not realized--the stranded folk nearest the explosion cheered and gave the ancient thumbs-up sign, as they skimmed low above the rooftops. Evidently most of the force of the explosion had expended itself upward.

"Get below--here we come again!" shouted Art through an open port.

The sun was descending beyond the blue Pacific, but they went on with their work of continually blasting, blasting, far into the night. Clouds of private fliers began to appear from neighboring California and other southwest cities. Art's desperate appeal had had its effect. By midnight, people were beginning to stumble through the string of smoking craters that had been made for them, toward the untouched open fields and groves to the north. By four o'clock, they were stringing out on the many roads and streets which left the city in that direction. Busses and private cars had been summoned, and were picking them up, to scatter them through neighboring cities where they might find accommodations.

Art and Horne, bruised and stunned from continual concussion and buffeting, exhausted from lack of sleep, looked at each other.

* * * * *

"Guess that's it," said Art. "You'll have to keep the men along the trail with their electron rays, to keep those devils from closing in at the edges." They had found that a line of men armed with these short-range weapons, could kill enough of the creatures to keep them from spreading. The electron ray generated enough sheer heat to melt metal, which was necessary to destroy the organisms.

"The city should be cleared by noon," Art went on. "I'd advise you to destroy the whole works immediately. I'll leave you one of the disintegrators. But be careful. Make sure all the wounded are out."

"Are you leaving already?" asked Horne, surprised. "How come?"

"Just heard from Dr. Theller," Art answered wearily. "It seems I'm wanted in Detroit. Same thing is happening there."

"No!" gasped Horne. "In Detroit! What do you suppose is the connection?"

"I don't know," Art replied. "I only wish I had time to work this out, to get some of these things in the lab and analyze them--it would help so much to know what we're fighting."

Art decided he would stop at the laboratory on the way back, and see if Dr. Theller had been able to find out anything of the nature of the specimen he had left behind. As he entered, he saw that the place was strangely deserted. Dr. Theller and Elene he found in the former's office, however.

"I counted on your stopping in," said the Institute head as Art came in. "Things are in pretty serious shape all over. You did a great job in Los Angeles. Now I'm going to ask you to repeat that performance--"

"Detroit?" Art interrupted.

"No--I've already sent several good men there. You don't realize how this thing has spread. In the last hour, Singapore, Cairo and Athens have all called us. London, in fact, the whole of southeastern England, is stricken. The British Foundation has some fine men, however; they think they'll be able to handle it."

"Dr. Theller, must he leave at once?" asked Elene, with an anxious look at Art's weary face.

"I'll be all right, Elene," Art assured her. "A hot shower, hot drink, and a transfusion of supervitalized plasma, and I'll never know I missed a night's sleep. I've been eating a food tablet every now and then, so I'm not at all hungry."

"All right, Art, you get fixed up--then you're off for Cairo. I'll have the commissary issue you some more disintegrators. I wouldn't ask you to do this, but every minute counts. I'm thinking of taking off for Athens and leaving Elene in charge, myself."

"Oh, I almost forgot to ask you, Dr. Theller, have you examined the specimen here yet?"

A chagrined look came over the scientist's face.

"Well, I hate to admit this, Art, but the thing escaped in the confusion. Don't see how it could have gotten very far away. I'll have some of the men look around the grounds for it."

Art shook his head slowly as he went out. Such incompetency seemed unlike the aged savant, but he guessed that inactivity had taken its toll of the old man.